Inspiration
2016 © All Rights Reserved
When a writer feels low on inspiration, he must find a way to get it back.
It's been a few months. Ninety seven days to be exact. My pen hadn't met the paper, leaving behind a trail of ink for close to a hundred days. Not a thought or motivation had crossed my blocked mind. It felt like it was a chore to push the words through my brain, like I was dragging my legs through cement and I could feel the material hardening, soon making it impossible to leave the place I had been put in. The decline in my mental stability had been teetering, swaying from sane to complete bat shit crazy. There was soon to be no middle ground, only black and white, the small gray that had been spared fading by the second.
"When's the last time you wrote?" My therapist would ask me, the question infuriating in itself. She didn't know the frustration she put me through as the quiet madness would take over in my mind from the simple inquiry.
I'd mumble out the same few words "I don't know" before changing the subject all the while imagining taking the pens that sat neatly in the cup holder on her perfectly disorganized mess of a desk then stabbing them into her body. Her arms, legs, neck, cheeks. I didn't hate her, far from it. She was the only person to understand where I was coming from, but she could see my decline over the months, making me want to hurt her. For the fear of her knowing too much.
It all started from the day she told me, "You're hiding behind a mask but that mask is fading. You can't hide who you are." She cared and I would picture killing her for it, for caring so much to notice my change. The therapy session was clear as day. My focus would fade in and out, but the only thing to keep my full attention was that damn clock. Oh god, that stupid clock. The constant ticks of every second made me want to rip it off the wall, smashing it into the smallest pieces. I could then make someone swallow the broken shards. My eyes wandered up to my therapist's eyes at the thought, I didn't like to have direct eye contact, afraid she'd see through me, see me for the monster I was becoming. The fear washed away as I thought about her washing down the glass of the clock that made me feel like I was coming closer to losing my sanity down her throat.
It has been ninety seven days. Today I'm breaking my silence.
Sighing, Wallace dropped the pen he was writing with. It was the first time in a long time he had the courage to even write, even if it was just a journal entry. His index finger and thumb rubbed both of his eyes, the weariness from the day starting to get to him.
Closing the book, he left the pen next to it and laid in bed expecting for sleep to come easily. I wrote! Inside his mind he would scream, the words echoing as if he yelled from the top of a mountain. I should be able to sleep, I wrote. What else am I to do? The last words sounding pathetic and depressing instead of angry inside of his mind; his empty non-motivated mind. His body was tired, while the mind was awake like an excited child. Only, he wasn't in any way, shape, or form happy. All of the jitters he felt inside of his body came from the anxiety of not being able to hide who he truly was. The thought of showing the deep, dark desires he held inside for so long to the people he cared about was sickening; making him want to vomit into the bin next to his work station.
The warmness of the blanket shielded the coldness that begged to come in, his body relaxed as he focused for the first time in a long time. Tears welled in his eyes as he could think clearly about the nasty thoughts that crawled throughout his body like a worm tearing it's way through an apple. Only in his mind, the apple was discolored and rotten while the worm was a mere skeleton of what it used to be.
Images passed through his head, he could see each one vividly as if he was watching it in front of him. A movie of the darkest parts of his brain, a part he wish could take out himself. If it was possible Wallace knew he'd take the sharpest object he could find, sharpen it even more then cut into his head and slice the evil out of his poor brain. It was a memory of him cooking for his family while they all laughed and joked together in the living room, only the memory was changed. He served the food neatly on plates and placed them on the glass table. Before announcing dinner was ready, he sprinkled a powder substance into the food they would eat. In his mind, he couldn't control what he thought and the feeling filled him with even more anxiety than he was already experiencing. "No!" Wallace screamed at himself but it felt like a nightmare that spiraled out of control and there was nothing he could do about it, "What are you doing, man?" His screaming turned into a cry. Back in the memory, he mixed in the powder on everyone's plates except for his own. Then he announced to his family the food was ready. And like hungry wolves they demolished the food in front of their faces while he took his time, his piercing eyes not looking away from the family he loved and cared about swallowing what would soon kill them.
"Tastes a little weird." His sister mentioned, but still shoved in spoonfuls into her mouth, her taste buds being beat out by her hunger.
"Stop complaining and eat, I don't see you cooking." The father spoke up. His dry lips sipping on water, washing down the food.
Wallace's mother looked up at him. He took in her frail, small frame. She would be the first to go, he thought to himself. "I agree with your sister," she didn't look worried, but curious. "What did you do to it?"
He smiled, "New seasoning."
Then came the coughing and fists beating against their chests. He watched as they tried to speak then took sips of their drink when they felt like they couldn't talk. Each, one after the other fell to the ground. His mother and sister's hands grabbed at their necks while his father continued to hit at his chest all the while their gazes remained on him, even after their hearts stopped beating and bodies fell limp across the dining room floor. And for the first time, they saw him for the person he was.
Wallace pulled himself away from the altered memory or delusion, whatever it was, he didn't want to admit he wanted a part of it. As much as he didn't want to believe it, the thought of hurting the people he loved soothed his anxiety like a mother would soothe a baby to sleep. With his mind not racing and finally giving himself away to the exhaustion that covered him as much as his blanket, he let out a few more tears. Darkness surrounded him when his eyelids eased themselves over his eyes. Before he fell into a deep sleep, he had a last thought. Why am I a monster?
-
The next day Wallace woke up with a headache that only the devil could conjure up. His mind felt scattered, worsening the pain inside and taking a toll on him mentally and physically. As he rose up from his bed, he felt like he could crumble back into bed; the weight of his own body feeling as if it doubled over night. Trudging from his room with the motivation of a hot caffeinated drink washing away the soreness of his throat, disappointment and irritation engulfed the entirety of his body once he realized his father must have taken the last of coffee in the house.
With a small sigh, he reached to the drawer where the silverware was stored. Underneath was a hidden compartment he discovered a year ago by accident while looking desperately for something he couldn't remember at the moment. A year ago, he developed a disgusting taste for nicotine. A year and neither of his parents had caught him. His parents weren't dumb to not know their seventeen year old son had developed a taste for the stick that could some day kill him, but neither brought it up as they wanted to ignore the fact that they themselves would be hypocrites.
As he lit the cigarette, he hoped the small feeling of disappointment would go away, or at least hide itself enough so he could ignore it, like a neglectful mother. The disappointment stemmed from his lack of motivation. He thought on his writing last night and guessed it would have sparked something in him that he hadn't had in a while. But like a burned out wick, it didn't seem like there was a fire big or hot enough to light the match inside of him.
Inhaling the fumes of the burning of the cigarette, his body, once tense and stiff finally relaxed as the smoke exhaled through his nostrils. In those moments, it was all he needed. Who needs a vacation when a simple suck on the cancer stick took him to his happiest place, the thought would enter his head in the times he found comfort in the cigarette. He wanted to give it up, knowing it wasn't good for his health but the sweet relief was all too hard to give up. One day he'd tell himself, with the slight hint of doubt in his body.
Even with some of the stress released from himself, he still hadn't the motivation he wanted, he so desperately craved for like some sweet snack at midnight.
For a normal teenager in the suburbs he lived in, he should have been at school but after a nervous breakdown in his freshman year of high school, his parents thought best for him to do online schooling. Wallace gave no arguments with the decision. While his distant friends were off doing an assignment or work of some sort, he found himself wondering out of the house. The humidity of late October air covered his body, feeling muggy and disgusting. He remembered not even a few years back that if he walked out of his house this time of year, it was cold and made him want to be outside feeling the soothing air against his flesh. But alas, the weather matched his sour mood and he felt no will to be inside of the house trapped with his thoughts.
Being outside used to motivate him, the chirp of the birds, other humans doing their normal routine whether it was mowing the grass or making their way to work. The littlest of things would give him ideas to put in his stories but it didn't inspire him in the way it used to. Wallace looked at the world in a darker tone over the course of the past few months. Things seemed dull through his slowly changing perspective.
Down the road, not far but not too close yet was an obviously distracted man, speeding down the road. Late for work, Wallace assumed. A cat laid in the middle of the street, paying no mind to the car getting closer to it, sure to greet the vicious speed of the man's car if it didn't make haste and run from the road.
Wallace's legs and arms became stiff, his feet melting into the sidewalk. He stared at the cat then the car. If he wanted to do something to help the cat, he could but something made him freeze, waiting for the cat's impending doom.
As the car sped faster down the road, his heart beat raced, watching the cat. In his mind, he could already see the cat's death, guts spilling every where as it died slowly with a pool of it's own blood forming around it. He wondered if the cat was a boy or a girl, did it have a family that would miss it? All these thoughts would enter his brain but yet he just watched.
With each second, the more his heart would pace up, it was a feeling he got before the first big drop on a roller coaster.
The man in the car made a swift right, heading down a different road in a new direction just barely missing the cat. Leaves flew in Wallace's direction, helping him snap out of the trance he found himself in. Like the car had a hold on him, he felt his feet become unglued from the sidewalk and ran over to the cat who didn't seem phased at all from the situation. Picking up the cat, he placed it down in the grass out of the way of other cars sure to come down the road.
Wallace pulled out his phone, bringing up his notes where he usually typed down things he found inspiring or had an idea he didn't want to forget. In detail he wrote what he had experienced with the car, but instead of the cat avoiding the death by a chance of luck, in his story the cat met it's gruesome end.
After saving his work, he got up off of the ground then said his goodbyes to the cat who continued to lay in the grass, leaves sticking to the black and white cat. He walked home with a sense of relaxation.
He walked into the house, forgetting about making himself lunch as he made a beeline for his room. On the night table sat the journal he wrote in the previous day where he was eager to talk about his thoughts. Grabbing his pen, he wanted to get out the words quickly with the fear they would disappear from his brain. In it he wrote,
I feel like today will be a good day. In fact, I know it will be. I found what I was missing, I know what I have to do in order to get the motivation I have been searching for. The only moment I stopped looking for it, it came to me. Today I almost saw a cat die and I had the time and means to save it. But like a bad car accident, I just watched. Seeing something so innocent almost meet its end was so interesting and intriguing. It sounds sickening to say, but makes sense in a way.. I kind of wanted to see it die. I feel like it would have given me more to work with and write. Never in my life had I seen something or someone die, but I felt a sense of familiarity. You know the feeling, right? It's kind of like when you smell a scent or taste something that reminds you of a happy time in your life. It felt like that.
Motivation has found me after escaping me for so long, so many words want to spill from my brain but for now, I will save that for the books. I now know what I have to do. For the first time in my life I have experienced a rush and if motivation were a person, I gripped my hands around the fucker's neck and squeezed. Never will I let it slip from my fingers again, I won't let it escape from me like it had before.
Yesterday I had been ashamed and saddened by my thoughts, but today I feel was a wake up call. It's time to accept who I truly am.
Author's Note: Wow.. it sure has been a long time since I have written or posted anything and I swear I haven't forgotten you guys. I still read the comments even if I can't respond as much as I want to. This story was inspired from my frustration with writer's block, but I think you guys will be happy to know (if you enjoyed the story) that it will be made into my next book. Yep, I'm going to take this idea and further expand on it. Thank you all for sticking with me! I hope you liked this story. :)
Also a huge thank you to for giving me an amazing tip to help get over my writer's block! :)